


It's A Strange Way of Saying (the 'Let Me See Your Moves' Remix)

by megyal



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Bandslash, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-24
Updated: 2008-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's side of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Strange Way of Saying (the 'Let Me See Your Moves' Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fic_mania@LJ's Fic Remix challenge, using [Let Me See Your Moves](http://bluejbird.livejournal.com/522652.html) by bluejbird; if you haven't, I really (really) recommend reading that first, because this does not read well without it. In that age-old tradition of naming fics, the title is from FOB.

Patrick Stump has been blindingly furious three, maybe four times in his whole life, angry to the point where he can't see much, he can't hear anyone, he can't breathe properly except in short pained exhalations and inhalations. _Inhale_ , and he sees Jon getting up and looking at him with that slow, sweet smile that melts into a sort of desperate, agonized _I-know_ ; exhale and his fist is curling tightly and it's rocketing its way towards Jon's eye, the right one; inhale and he's walking out of the Panic bus and making his way across the parking lot; exhale and he's standing inside the lounge of his bus without knowing how he really got there.

He's breathing like a man who is dying a painful death.

"Hey," Pete says absently from where he's sprawled on the floor of the lounge, looking up and Patrick and frowning. He literally scrambles up and reaches out to Patrick, who flinches away; it is only then he realizes he is trembling. "Patrick? What--"

"No," Patrick hears himself say in a hoarse voice. That's not right, that's not the voice of a man who has to sing soon...this sounds like a famished crow. "Nothing, no," he says flatly and he feels Pete's arm sling around his neck, dragging him deeper into the bus, past a sleepy Andy and a sleepier Hemmy, all the way to the back room. Patrick stumbles in first and tries to close the door in Pete's face, but the skinny bastard slips in quickly. There is some sort of struggle, wherein Patrick tries to shove Pete back out and Pete doesn't budge; it degenerates into a strange, soundless _dry_ fight, where Patrick is literally on fire and he's striking out and seeing Jon's face as he punches and kicks.

Pete has no qualms hitting back, though. There is a clumsy jab to Patrick's side; he makes a choked gasp and collapses on his side on the bed, before sliding down the edge and ending up on his knees. He looks at the floor, just really _looks_ at it, because his head is so heavy, he can hardly lift it. Pete kneels in front of him and presses his forehead against Patrick's cheek, which has wisps of damp hair plastered against it. Patrick closes his eyes.

"Tell me," Pete says softly, as if he hadn't laid a serious punch into the ribs of his best friend four seconds ago. Patrick starts to shake his head, but Pete relentlessly nudges Patrick's face with his forehead and repeats: "Tell me."

Patrick moves his head, leans forward to rest it in the crook of Pete's neck and when he gets his breath back properly, he starts to talk.

* * *

Patrick thinks it's kind of funny at two a.m., when he can't sleep.

It's funny because Jon just doesn't look like the type who would do something like this. He looks like everyone's boyfriend, the one people would bring home to their mother and have her talk about how nice he is the day after. He looks like a Good Guy. Patrick is trying to figure out if he should have seen some sort of sign; when did they think this shit up? This fantastically intricate joke? Was it when he had been spending all that time just staring at Spencer, appreciating his cool eyes and cooler smile, the way his rotated his wrists ever so often, looking just a little bit removed from this world. Was it then?

Or was it when he had approached Jon, went to _Jon_ after he had sent Pete on a preliminary reconnaissance mission (Objective: Get Jon over here, so he may be drilled on the habits of one Spencer Smith). Patrick had been so nervous, he had sought out Jon himself right after, just to ask about those rumors about him and Spencer; because he was being practical. It made no sense to try anything at all with Spencer, if he already had a thing going on with Jon.

No sense at all.

Oh, it must have been when Jon offered to help him get to whatever lofty standard Spencer had. Oh, god. Right. It must have been then; and he had been so eager to get close to Spencer, that he had soaked up every bit of Jon's 'advice', from the way Spencer liked to be touched, to what Spencer liked to talk about (when he was in a talking mood), to how Spencer murmured things in his sleep that could be used against him, for sexual favors, maybe.

Sexual favors that Jon had been schooling him on.

Favors that had become less associated with Spencer and more with Jon's slow smile and the way he focused completely on Patrick when they talked softly together afterwards and how his fingers would trail over Patrick's ears, tucking stubborn wisps of hair behind them.

Looking back now, Patrick wonders just how desperate he must have appeared and he laughs softly, until he feels like throwing up. He closes his eyes and thinks about Jon's face, how he'd like to do the most impossible task of burying his fist in Jon's mouth and kissing it all at the same time.

* * *

He actually remembers quite well the first time he kissed Jon. He remembers so well, it's like a total fucking recall, because he can almost smell the slightly musty air of where they had been, he can practically hear the soft creaks of a house settling down, the slow murmurs of late-night traffic.

It had been in Pete's parent's basement, and it had been the day before his birthday. They had been laying side-by-side on the ground, on top of a haphazard pile of sleeping bags that people would use later when they trudged in from their Night of Awesome Party. He didn't go, because he had just wanted to spend some time... with Jon. He didn't know why, Jon was always at the periphery of his attention, like stars at the edge of the solar system, but he had looked at Jon that night and saw him as if someone had turned on a searchlight over his head, saw his hair and eyes and thought _well, look at that_.

Surprising. A little frightening too, but not much.

He spoken Jon's name softly as they lay warm and sleepy on the floor, just trying out the name as if he was saying it for the first time and Jon had turned to him, face questioning and soft, the corners of his mouth pulled down in that amusing way people had when they were trying really hard to go to sleep. Jon had smiled a little, coming up to prop his head on one hand as he lay on his side and flicking a quick gaze at Patrick's mouth as Patrick had moved to mimic him. That quick movement of his eyes was what inspired Patrick to ask, almost in a whisper, "Can I?" before leaning forward immediately and pressing parted lips against Jon's.

Jon had made a slightly shocked sound, then a soft groan, mouth opening against Patrick's, his lips a little too dry and his return kiss heavy on the tongue; Patrick was just about to pull away, but Jon slid his propped-up arm back down, going to lie flat on his back and pulling Patrick with him. Patrick was rolled atop him like a sack of grain, as easy as that, his knees on either side of Jon's hips and as Jon arched up into him, the kiss which had been a little sloppy just moments before was suddenly traveling through realms of Nice and passing into the land of Perfect.

Jon pulled at the collar of Patrick's plaid shirt, unbuttoning it slowly; he pushed the garment off Patrick's shoulders as they kissed, his calloused hands stroking the shirt down the sensitive skin of Patrick's arms, goose bumps flaring in their wake. Patrick was murmuring against his mouth, pulling at the fly of his jeans and sticking his hand in without any preamble, wrapping his hand around warm, hard cock.

"Do you--?" Jon asked as they struggled with their jeans, tugging them off and flinging them away, mouths and hands and lips and teeth, everywhere, anywhere.

"What?" Patrick gasped, not thinking with the way Jon was sticking his tongue down his ear. Lube, he must have been asking about lube or something. Which he did not have. "I don't--"

"Just. We can, still."

They did, but Jon's moans were hungry and pained at the same time and Patrick wanted to stop, more than once, because it was only spit but Jon was warm and clenching and he _insisted_ in a choked voice and after while, Patrick couldn't stop.

Why this memory is coming up so incredibly clear, colors fresh as a newly painted picture, is a mystery to Patrick. Or perhaps, not so mysterious after all.

* * *

"You need to talk to him," Pete says in a dark voice and Patrick refrains from throwing the Mac at his head, because Pete is only trying to help.

"I don't," Patrick replies in a cool voice, holding the wireless mouse tightly. Pete gives it a considering eye and sits down gingerly at the edge of the bed, as if someone had dared him to get close to a sleeping lion. "I don't care what you say. Honestly."

"This is not for you." Pete reaches out and captures the mouse, pulling it deftly from under Patrick's fingers. Patrick looks at him and folds his arms across his chest.

"I didn't know there was a license on emo," Patrick says bitterly and Pete shakes his head at him.

"You're going to talk to him. I'm not going to stop bugging you until you do. This is a promise. I'm not going to have you like this, you need to close it off, or something."

"Right now I probably hate you as much as I hate him," Patrick tells him; Pete puts his stubborn-face on. "I'll go. Get out, give me a few minutes, and I'll go."

"How many minutes?" Pete barters quickly, a true businessman. "I'll give you five."

"Half-hour."

"Ten minutes."

"Twenty."

"Fifteen."

"Deal," Patrick says with a smile that feels too small on his face, as if it would slip to the ground any minute. Pete hesitates, fingers twitching on top of his tight jeans, but Patrick gives him a hard look and he departs with a sigh.

"Fifteen minutes," Patrick tells himself softly as he locks the door and rummages in his bags for the small, greasy bottle of lube.

* * *

He's in the wings, tucked under Pete's armpit, pressed hip to bony hip with his own arms folded across his chest, watching Panic play to the wall of sound that is the crowd. He feels sore, every point inside of him still pulsing with the push and drag of Jon's cock and not for the first time, he feels grateful that he's not the type to go prancing and whirling about the stage. Coldest fuck he'd ever had, and he'd known it wouldn't be enough to stop this acidic sensation in his bones, like someone had placed him in a beaker to be dissolved into nothing.

Pete turns his face and nuzzles his cheek, breath soft against Patrick's hair. Patrick makes a quick exhalation that strives to be amused; then, for some reason he can't prevent his body from going rigid as they watch Brendon kiss Jon. Pete murmurs something against his jaw.

"What?" he says, turning to face Pete and repeats the word, the low voice of the bass-guitar shimmering against his skin; Pete is looking at him closely, then shakes his head and mouths _nothing_.

* * *

What is with everyone and fucking grand gestures?

And how comes everyone knows he really digs that shit? Really. If someone feels strongly enough to enter hostile territory and declare how they feel and what they would do to make him happy again, then he is really willing to give another chance. Call him overly sappy, but love can fix a lot of things.

It really can.

Patrick is at the door of Panic's bus and Brendon is the one that opens the door, his eyes going bright as soon as he spots Patrick standing at the bottom of the steps.

"Oh wow, hey. You can come right in," Brendon says in delight and steps aside, but Ryan is there like a skinny blockade, his face a tight mask.

"Are you going to punch him again?" Ryan intones, looking down at him. "Because if you're here to, then... we, we can't have that. We're _not_."

"I'm not going to punch him again," Patrick promises softly as their driver swings into his seat, ready to roll out. Around them, the other buses are starting up again, pulling out of the venue. He can see his bus moving away in front of Pete's, a sleek bullet to the heart of their next location. "Well, look at that. I guess, um, I'll have to ride with you guys."

"Come _up_ ," Brendon insists and elbows Ryan out of the way. Ryan tries to look threatening and succeeds a little, and Patrick understands. "Let's go."

He sees Spencer in the lounge as the engine fires up and he pauses. Spencer pulls down the magazine in front of his face and regards him in that cool way that used to boil Patrick's blood a little, make him feel as if he had one too many layers on. Or six.

"I didn't know," Spencer says with wry twist of his mouth, not apologetic at all, not really. "I didn't know he felt that way. Or he would do something like that."

Patrick shrugs. "I guess we'll work on it, somehow," he says and gains a small yet brilliant smile from Spencer. He tries out a smile himself, feeling how it sits really well on his face, then makes his way to Jon's bunk.

 ****

end


End file.
